ROBERTO A SAMSON, a Filipino-Italian living in Ireland, gives credit where credit is due to those all-time miracle workers and hidden true heroes around us
On the face of a mother are recorded stories of sacrifice, of pride, joy, and love. I enjoy observing mothers watch their children. It is always a heart-warming treat to witness the glow on their faces – whether one may be gaping at her son managing a hook shot in basketball, or another holding her breath as her daughter’s date pins on the corsage before they leave for the dance.
I remember a Chinese tale from grade school about a son who felt ashamed of his mother’s awfully scarred face and would not acknowledge her as his mother. It was with great remorse that he later made up for this, when he discovered that the scar was a result of his mother risking her own life by running back into their burning house to save him when he was still a baby.
Recalling the good old days, when I look at my mother, I seem to read beautiful experiences in each crease that appears when she smiles. On the forehead, a line or two betrays worry from the usual illnesses that beset us in childhood. That particular wrinkle digs deeper as anxiety grips her each time one of us suffers from any ailment – be it a need for major surgery or simply the common cold.
The faint web around her eyes shouts accolades for every big or small achievement we have garnered. I remember most vividly my graduation day, when she came on stage to pin the medal on me. Strangely, I distinctly felt more pride showing off my mother to all my classmates and teachers than receiving the award for myself.
I remember two months before she died some years back, I broke down when I received a note attached to my last birthday gift from her which read, in not-so-perfect English: “Most of my friends are richer than I, but they don’t have sons like mine whom I would not trade, even for a billion dollars. Thank you for being my son.”
Look into mothers’ faces and discover the miracle of motherhood. At times, motherhood creates wonders so familiar we might even take them for granted. For instance, I have never really thought of my only sister as womanly, much less motherly. She was always tomboyish in manner, a stubborn person at her best. Yet from the moment her pregnancy was confirmed, she stoically gave up nicotine-contaminated air all through the nine months, just like that. That iron lady now allows her little boy to tangle up her tresses, and searches late at night for cork-lid bottles for her son’s science project.
Mothers are true heroes. Nine months carrying a growing load is no joke – tossing and turning at night to find the right position to catch a few winks. They are the fairy godmothers who kiss pains away. They are the ‘saints of perpetual help’. When the world stops listening, mothers egg on: “What did you do? What did he say? And then…? ”
Mothers gulp down surprises like vitamins. They are the best shock absorbers, too. A friend of mine went home one day to find her son’s hair dyed violet and yellow. She had been warned about it over the phone, but the sight was simply overwhelming. Yet she knew she had to tame her reaction, and calmly asked her otherwise serious son what had prodded him to do such a thing.
Look around the room for mothers and you can immediately find instant Barney song singers and X-Factor impersonators. I thought I was a hit with my animated action version of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, but the short-lived glory instantly vanished with my sister-in-law’s updated version of Reflections sung accompanying her daughter’s lip syncing.
As an uncle and godfather for the umpteenth time, I have been invited to numerous recitals and prep school graduations. For me, the most awaited moment is when my nephew’s or niece’s turn comes around. No, not because he could sing better than the rest, nor because she dances much more gracefully than the last time. It is the moment when the mother rushes forth, almost onto the stage, and fires away with the camera or camcorder in a matter that would make Stephen Spielberg looked amateur. I never fail to notice the glint in a mother’s eyes turning on automatically even before the flash light signals ready.
When children turn into adults, mothers sometimes regress to their childhood. Some become extremely possessive, others critical of all of their children’s peers. Others bear the separation anxieties in lonesome silence. I empathise with mothers letting go of their children with loving surrender – a moment most poignant.
Some mothers never were. Our faithful babysitter, Ligaya (Tagalog for ‘joy’), never had a child, but she was a mother to all three of us for all of my 48 years. With her, there was no escaping the bowl of oatmeal for breakfast. He who left it slyly on the table would find Ligaya waiting for him with the same bowl to be consumed before taking off in the car for school. It was she who stuffed cotton into our ears to muffle the firecracker blasts every New Year’s Eve in Manila. It was she, too, who silently grieved every time any of us got a reprimanding punishment.
Maternity is a gift that comes with all sorts of trappings. Being a mother may mean responsibility, authority or charity. But how a mother weaves her maternity spells a difference in that other’s life. I am very grateful to be a witness to the miracle workers around me. God bless mothers. Let’s all hope that more eyes would sparkle with the continuous shining of the love of a mother.
I remember a Chinese tale from grade school about a son who felt ashamed of his mother’s awfully scarred face and would not acknowledge her as his mother. It was with great remorse that he later made up for this, when he discovered that the scar was a result of his mother risking her own life by running back into their burning house to save him when he was still a baby.
Recalling the good old days, when I look at my mother, I seem to read beautiful experiences in each crease that appears when she smiles. On the forehead, a line or two betrays worry from the usual illnesses that beset us in childhood. That particular wrinkle digs deeper as anxiety grips her each time one of us suffers from any ailment – be it a need for major surgery or simply the common cold.
The faint web around her eyes shouts accolades for every big or small achievement we have garnered. I remember most vividly my graduation day, when she came on stage to pin the medal on me. Strangely, I distinctly felt more pride showing off my mother to all my classmates and teachers than receiving the award for myself.
I remember two months before she died some years back, I broke down when I received a note attached to my last birthday gift from her which read, in not-so-perfect English: “Most of my friends are richer than I, but they don’t have sons like mine whom I would not trade, even for a billion dollars. Thank you for being my son.”
Look into mothers’ faces and discover the miracle of motherhood. At times, motherhood creates wonders so familiar we might even take them for granted. For instance, I have never really thought of my only sister as womanly, much less motherly. She was always tomboyish in manner, a stubborn person at her best. Yet from the moment her pregnancy was confirmed, she stoically gave up nicotine-contaminated air all through the nine months, just like that. That iron lady now allows her little boy to tangle up her tresses, and searches late at night for cork-lid bottles for her son’s science project.
Mothers are true heroes. Nine months carrying a growing load is no joke – tossing and turning at night to find the right position to catch a few winks. They are the fairy godmothers who kiss pains away. They are the ‘saints of perpetual help’. When the world stops listening, mothers egg on: “What did you do? What did he say? And then…? ”
Mothers gulp down surprises like vitamins. They are the best shock absorbers, too. A friend of mine went home one day to find her son’s hair dyed violet and yellow. She had been warned about it over the phone, but the sight was simply overwhelming. Yet she knew she had to tame her reaction, and calmly asked her otherwise serious son what had prodded him to do such a thing.
Look around the room for mothers and you can immediately find instant Barney song singers and X-Factor impersonators. I thought I was a hit with my animated action version of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, but the short-lived glory instantly vanished with my sister-in-law’s updated version of Reflections sung accompanying her daughter’s lip syncing.
As an uncle and godfather for the umpteenth time, I have been invited to numerous recitals and prep school graduations. For me, the most awaited moment is when my nephew’s or niece’s turn comes around. No, not because he could sing better than the rest, nor because she dances much more gracefully than the last time. It is the moment when the mother rushes forth, almost onto the stage, and fires away with the camera or camcorder in a matter that would make Stephen Spielberg looked amateur. I never fail to notice the glint in a mother’s eyes turning on automatically even before the flash light signals ready.
When children turn into adults, mothers sometimes regress to their childhood. Some become extremely possessive, others critical of all of their children’s peers. Others bear the separation anxieties in lonesome silence. I empathise with mothers letting go of their children with loving surrender – a moment most poignant.
Some mothers never were. Our faithful babysitter, Ligaya (Tagalog for ‘joy’), never had a child, but she was a mother to all three of us for all of my 48 years. With her, there was no escaping the bowl of oatmeal for breakfast. He who left it slyly on the table would find Ligaya waiting for him with the same bowl to be consumed before taking off in the car for school. It was she who stuffed cotton into our ears to muffle the firecracker blasts every New Year’s Eve in Manila. It was she, too, who silently grieved every time any of us got a reprimanding punishment.
Maternity is a gift that comes with all sorts of trappings. Being a mother may mean responsibility, authority or charity. But how a mother weaves her maternity spells a difference in that other’s life. I am very grateful to be a witness to the miracle workers around me. God bless mothers. Let’s all hope that more eyes would sparkle with the continuous shining of the love of a mother.
